How wonderful of you to join me
by Enid Black
Summary: A small work inspired by this drawing, an angst plot bunny that attacked me at three am and didn't want to let me go. WARNING - MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS


It was the end, indeed. This time Sherlock hadn't been able to escape his death. John was sure of it, this time he was there and he had held his lover's body while the life escaped it.

It had taken him some days to sort himself out of the deep hole of nothingness that had encompassed him after that day. All their friends were so worried for him, but he couldn't seem to care.

Then one day, more or less thirteen days after, he woke up, shaved his face, went downstairs kissing Mrs Hudson's cheek and went outside. He came back late in the evening, eyed by a worried landlady and an even more worried DI Lestrade.

"Good Evening, Greg, fancy a cuppa?" he asked, politely. Lestrade fidgeted with his hands and then answered.  
"No, thank you John, I have to go back to the Met. See you, though." John gave him a sad smile at that  
"Yeah, see you.".

Lestrade went away and Mrs Hudson was left alone with the doctor.

"John, dear, would you like to have dinner with me? I've made far too much food just for me."  
John smiled again, again that sad smile of his.  
"Sure Mrs Hudson, let me just put the jacket away.".

John went upstairs and hanged the jacked, just nearby _his coat_. He took the occasion to breathe it in, deeply. Then he squared his shoulders and went downstairs. He ate earthily, complimenting Mrs Hudson and leaving her quite a pleasent evening.

Then he went upstairs, in the room that had become _their room_. He caressed everything, from the periodic table on the wall to the skull that he had moved in there _after_. He took the blue nightgown from the hanger and draped it around himself. The smell was almost fading. It was no good.

Then, he went to the wardrobe, opening Sherlock's side. He retrieved a box hidden under several scarves. The blue one was kept in the operation and he draped it around his own neck.

The box in his hand, he went to the bed. He opened it and took the paper neatly stuck on top of it.

The elegant, public-school handwriting gave away the author of what was written on it.

_"Dear John,_

_if you have retrieved this exact box, I can only assume that I have unfortunately passed away before my time. Thus, this makes necessary for me to respect our agreement. Just like we promised each other on the night I came back. Where one lead, the other would follow, in life and in death. This box contains your own passport to the gates of Hades, my special conction that will just bring you from sleep to eternal peace._

_My last gift, for I know that you could just stand only one of my deaths._

_My love, my friend, my dear John, please, think against it one last time. Just once, and I will not annoy you again._

_I suspect that it has been in vain._

_I suppose I will see you soon, dear to my heart. I will kiss you there._

_Always only yours_

_Sherlock" _

John wept silently reading the last words that Sherlock had left him. Then he took the small vial inside box. There was another small paper with it:

"To my love, for his eternal peace"

John didn't think twice and drank it. Then he draped himself on their bed, burying his nose in the blue scarf, feeling the blue silk under his calloused hands.

"I'm coming, my love". he murmured just before sleeping.

—-

The men he had hired the day before came just at the crack of the dawn. They avoided to wake Mrs Hudson and were able to bring him to the morgue. Molly was not on duty, he had made sure of it. He hoped he would be able to avoid Mycroft too, but, unbeknowst to him, the elder Holmes had known. He just hadn't done nothing to stop him. Respecting his will.

The funeral was a tearful affair, Mrs Hudson was stricken, having lost the two she held dear as her sons, Lestrade's face was ashen. Mycroft was there, his eyes just slightly damp. Even Sally Donovan and Anderson couldn't just speak.

When the turmoil of the burial stopped and the tombstone was in his place (next to Sherlock, in white marble with silver letters, just his name, a specular image of his lover's, John himself had chosen it), when the dusk started to fall, one who would have _observed_, not just looked, would have seen the strangest thing. A tall man, with dark unruly hair and a long dark coat sat on the black tombstone, fingering a violin, playing it sweetly, while, beside him, a mist was starting to thicken, until, few minutes later, it gave form to another man. A light brown jumper under a non-descript jacket, a simple man, with a sweet smile on his lips. The taller man abandoned his violin (that vanished in the air) and went to embrace the other. John put his arms around Sherlock, sighing softly, raising his head to kiss the full lips in front of him.

_"Ah, John. How wonderful of you to join me…but how terrible that you're here." _


End file.
